Empty Chairs
by Zanna Tinuviel
Summary: A peek at Remus Lupin, sitting alone after the defeat of Lord Voldemort.


**Author's Note:** I originally planned to write this after the end of book five, but after Voldemort was defeated for the first time worked better with the lyrics, plus no one seems to touch on this much. Lyrics from _Les Miserables._

 _There's a grief that can't be spoken,_

 _There's a pain goes on and on._

 _Empty chairs at empty tables,_

 _Now my friends are dead and gone._

Remus tumbled out of the fireplace in his shabby kitchen, not bothering to brush the ash from his frayed robes as he collapsed in a chair at the table. All over the country, wizards were still celebrating the defeat of Lord Voldemort, the darkest wizard in history. They didn't care that Lily and James had died because of it. They didn't mind that Remus had lost everyone he cared about in one fell swoop.

Lily and James, murdered by Voldemort.

Sirius, betraying them to him, now locked in Azkaban.

Peter, killed by Sirius.

Voldemort had been defeated…. but none of them were alive to care, or, in Sirius' case…as good as.

 _Here they talked of revolution,_

 _Here it was they lit the flame_

 _Here they sang about tomorrow and tomorrow never came…_

Remus gazed tearfully at the nicked table, the five chairs, four of them empty. What would he give to have them all back again, laughing and joking, even as they plotted against the most fearsome adversary the world had known since Grindlewald?

How many times had they gathered here, eyes alight with their plans for a better tomorrow? Why had none of them ever considered the possibility of a traitor, or death, or the one left behind?

 _From the table in the corner,_

 _They could see a world reborn,_

 _And they rose with voices ringing,_

 _And I can hear them now._

 _They very words that they have sung_

 _Became their last communion_

 _On this lonely barricade, at dawn._

He didn't want to sit there anymore, not where more ghosts lingered, but he couldn't bring himself to move. It still felt as though they would all come barging in any minute, laughing, smiling, eyes sparkling, _alive_.

But Remus couldn't bring himself to get up, to walk away, to stop looking.

There was the spot where Sirius had, simply out of boredom, carved his initials into the wood before his chair. The burn from when Peter had dropped a potion. James' doodles in permanent marker. Would he have to live through this every time he sat here? _Could_ he live with that?

…Could he live without it?

 _Oh my friends, my friends forgive me_

 _That I live and you are gone,_

 _There's a grief that can't be spoken,_

 _There's a pain goes on and on._

Remus buried his face in his hands, breathing raggedly.

 _Why couldn't I have died, too?_ He thought miserably. _Why wasn't I brave enough to go after Sirius with Peter? Why do I have to be the one left to live?_

"I'm so sorry," he whispered to the air, to the memories, to the ghosts. "If I could go back…if it could've been me instead of you…"

He could almost feel them all there, sitting in those empty chairs at the empty table.

 _Phantom faces at the window,_

 _Phantom shadows on the floor,_

 _Empty chairs at empty tables where my friends will meet no more._

"Moony, you idiot," he could hear James say. "Why are you moping about like this?"

"Because you're dead," Remus mumbled into his hands, voice muffled. "You're dead, and I'm alive, and it's not fair."

"Nothing's fair, Remus." This was Lily's soft voice. " _Fair_ doesn't occur naturally. It's something we have to bring about ourselves. It's not your fault we're dead….and at least Harry's still alive."

"But how can I live with myself now?"

"Well, you haven't got a choice, have you?" asked the voice of an imaginary Sirius. "Someone's got to carry on the Marauders, eh? Wormtail, am I right? I am, aren't I?"

"Absolutely."

"I'm going mad," Remus muttered. "And you're _still_ all dead, and there's nothing to be done. I couldn't stop it. I –"

His voice cracked, and he closed his eyes and sobbed, hot tears plashing on the weary table's rough surface.

The imaginary ghosts offered no comfort, simply sat, silent.

 _People are so afraid of death,_ thought Remus brokenly _but really, it's the living they ought to fear._

 _Oh my friends, my friends don't ask me_

 _What your sacrifice was for_

 _Empty chairs at empty tables_

 _Where my friends will sing no more._

 _Finis_


End file.
